


Under the Weather

by captnalbatr0ss



Series: The Captain and his Quartermaster [24]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8046541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: Rafe has a bad habit of working too hard, and for too long. He refuses to admit when it's time to take a break. Even when Sam insists he should. Sam, who wants nothing more than to take care of him.It feels so strange, still, though they’ve been together for years. Rafe has yet to get used to being taken care of, and he tends to fight it.





	Under the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Formerly titled "In sickness and health." Trying out a new title because I was never quite happy with the last one. We'll see if it takes. I'm fickle about titles. :-\

* * *

It started as an ache, a stiffness. Rafe felt it first in his shoulders, his neck—a sort of tight pain, more irritating than anything else. Not terribly difficult to ignore. And after all, he’d spent most of the day at his desk, focus only shifting between his computer and the hefty stack of papers beside it, and he hadn’t been as mindful of his posture lately, so it only made sense—the ache. 

He was also tired, lethargic—but he figured he had the trip to thank for that. Traveling to and from Germany always hit Rafe hard—not the distance; somewhere around eight hours on a private plane? Rafe had suffered longer hours behind a desk, and in worse conditions. 

But the time difference, he never seemed to get used to it, certainly not fast enough. Although he’d flown back a few days prior, his internal clock was still struggling to adjust from Central European Time to Eastern Standard Time.

_Probably jet lag._

He pushed it out of his mind, adjusted in his chair until he was moderately comfortable again, tried to get back to—

_What was I doing? Ah…Email. Looking for... Van Ham. Right._

_Fuck, my head—_

Rafe closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose—hard. The pressure felt good, but not great, and he sighed.

He heard a soft knock at the door of his office, and he kept his eyes closed as he turned in his chair, facing the door.

“What.”

Sam opened the door a fraction, leaned halfway in. “Hey. You busy?”

Rafe shook his head, then nodded, then frowned. “No. Ah, yes. Sort of. But come in.”

Sam left the door standing open as he entered, crossed the room in a few long strides. As he shrugged off his jacket, Rafe felt the air stir—the smell of cigarettes, strong, but also a hint of pine, and something that reminded Rafe of citrus. And cologne. 

Rafe inhaled deeply, finding that the aroma relaxed him.

Sam draped his jacket over one arm, braced a hand on Rafe’s desk and leaned in casually. “Something wrong?”

“Just a headache. And I feel kind of stiff.”

Sam waggled his brows playfully. “I feel a little stiff after last night, too.” He shot Rafe a wink.

“Ha. You’re very funny.”

“Hey, listen, all I’m sayin’ is you got me pullin’ muscles I didn’t know I  _had_.” Sam grinned, but it faded as he looked closer at Rafe’s face, picking up on a different kind of tired behind those blue-brown eyes. “A’right, but seriously, you okay?”

A shrug. “It’s nothing. Jet lag.”

“Hm.” 

Sam glanced over his shoulder, tossed his jacket in the direction of the couch, and placed a hand on Rafe’s chair, spun him back toward his desk. Both hands now free, he laid them on Rafe’s shoulders, thumbs digging in gently. 

“You’ve been at it all day, why don’t you take a break, sweetheart. We can go to bed early, maybe watch a movie or something? Or I could run a bath—sounds like you could use a good soak.” Sam leaned closer, brushed his lips against the shell of Rafe’s ear. “C’mon, huh?”

“I can’t, Sam,” Rafe replied, but he tilted his head, encouraging Sam to pay him a bit more attention—Sam gladly complied. “Too much paperwork for the Eaton estate. They’ve got a few pieces, big pieces, they want us to take to auction. I’ve got contracts to amend, numbers to run. I haven’t heard back from my first pick for the auction house, and I’ve got deadlines coming up. I’ve got a few more hours until I can start making phone calls—right now, everyone in Germany is asleep. Which is probably why I’m so fucking tired.”

“Probably. You just got back, babe, so it feels like, what, four in the morning to you?” Sam countered.

“Something like that.”

Sam let his hands slide forward from Rafe’s shoulders to his chest, and in—a gentle hug. He leaned down, and over, his chin grazing Rafe’s collarbone. “At least come lay down with me for a few hours? Couldn’t you afford to get a little rest before Germany wakes up?” 

Sam kept one hand at Rafe’s chest, near his heart, and let the other slide lower, a slight bend in his fingers as his short nails raked slowly back and for across Rafe’s abs, doing all he knew to do to relax the younger man.

“Hah.” Rafe leaned back.

That was all the prompting Sam needed to stretch forward, press his lips to the soft angle where throat met chest. “C’mon. Let me take you to bed.”

“Mm.” Rafe shook his head. “Letting you take me to bed rarely involves sleeping, so what’s your game, Drake?”

Sam chuckled, and it sent a few short bursts of heat against Rafe’s skin. “No game, Adler. On my honor.”

Rafe sighed. Sam had a way, he’d learned, of coaxing Rafe over and away, a special talent for bringing Rafe around to him, and always back to him. 

And the headache, the body ache, it did seem to be abating. Maybe a bit of rest, even a few more sweet caresses, might get rid of them completely.

Rafe thought of the hours he was soon to be spending on the phone and then buried in contracts, and thought of how nice it would feel to be rid of the persistent ache in his bones.

“Fine,” he finally said. “Only if I can set an alarm.”

“Deal.”

“One more thing.”

Sam straightened, spun Rafe’s chair once more. “What’s that?”

Rafe looked up at Sam, felt one corner of his lips lifting in a tired half smile. “If I don’t wake up, you have to wake me up.”

Once in bed, they talked for awhile, Rafe tucked comfortably against Sam, and in his arms, but gradually the words stopped, and in the silence that followed, their hands did the talking, and their lips.

Everything unhurried, everything lazy. Relaxing. 

Rafe enjoyed Sam’s hands on him—they were big, rough, strong. And they knew him so well, knew exactly where to press and slide and grip, and although Rafe had intended to still Sam’s slow advance—he just didn’t  _feel_  quite right—soon enough he found that Sam had managed to wind him up, and turn him loose, and he had to admit that the release did offer a reprieve, did soothe the ache.

“No game, huh?” he whispered, breathless, against Sam’s ear.

“Well it wasn’t my plan, believe it or not.” Sam, already drifting, rolled off of Rafe, spooned against him easily. “Baby, you got no idea what you do to me—”

But Rafe did have an idea, and he didn’t mind, not really. Because he did feel significantly more relaxed, and oh so sleepy—

* * *

Rafe woke to the sharp cadence of his alarm. It sounded like an echo. He didn’t remember falling asleep, hadn’t really  _planned_  to, but then Sam, and his—

“Mmph.” Rafe felt blindly for his phone, silenced the alarm, pressing his face into his pillow hard and trying to summon the will to get up.

He was hot, and cold, and his head felt foggy, fuzzy. But he shook it off, carefully removed himself from Sam’s arms, and slid out of bed.

He rubbed his eyes, groaning at the sensation of heaviness that had settled in his limbs. Tugging on a pair of lounge pants, he felt around in the dark for his robe and shrugged it on. He cinched it around his hips, vaguely aware that he’d started to shiver.

He stepped silently back to the bed, to Sam’s side, found the older man’s slippers and begrudgingly shoved his feet in them—he couldn’t find his own. He paused, just for a moment, and looked at Sam, who hadn’t so much as stirred at the sound of Rafe’s alarm.

_Lucky bastard._

He slipped quietly out of their bedroom, dragging his feet the whole way to the kitchen, where he set a pot of coffee to brewing and rummaged in the fridge for something,  _anything_  that might give him some energy. But nothing sounded good, and when the coffee was ready and he still hadn’t made a decision, he gave up his hunt for food completely.

Sleeping was a mistake, he decided. Because he didn’t feel any better—in fact, he felt a bit worse.

He carried his mug to his desk, took a seat and woke his computer.

Rafe spared a sideways glance at the stack of papers, rubbed his eyes again, took another long gulp of coffee. Leaned back and stretched. Laced his fingers together and gave them a stretch as well before they found the keyboard again.

 _Roderic. Where are you? Let’s see…_ The search bar.  _Ro.Scholz@vanham.de._

“There we go.” A whisper, under his breath.

He shifted, flipped open the folder next to him, careful not to displace any of the pages inside, and jotted the email address down on the inside flap—kicking himself for not having done that in the first place. 

_Sloppy, Rafe, come on._

Under the scribbled email, he quickly added a few bullet points about the man.

_Prompt. Polite. Professional. Responds well to flattery. More accommodating when he’s relaxed—ask about his kids._

Coordinating the consignment of such a large portion of the estate would’ve been easier in person; Rafe preferred to conduct business that way. But time was growing short—he’d worked with the Van Ham auction house only once before, but he had a keen memory for business, and procedure, and he knew that to get into a specific auction, everything had to be settled by the time that auction was two months out. Or wait until the next one.

But his client with Eaton wasn’t interested in waiting, his client was interested in cashing in.

And so, Rafe got to work. His eyes were heavy, but he cleared his throat, dug deep, and adopted a tone that somehow sounded neither sleepy nor a bit under the weather.

By the time he finished up his calls, his coffee was cold and nearly three hours had passed.

Between Roderic at Van Ham, his client, and the company he was looking into for handling and transport of the collection, he had a solid page of notes, jotted in haste on the back of the file folder that contained his paperwork on the estate.

More changes, a few things to add, to remove. Another piece in, two more out, as Rafe worked to finalize the specifics on what exactly  _“the property of the Eaton estate, as represented by Rafe Adler, who will be heretofore referred to as the consignor”_ would entail, down to the last foreseeable detail. 

A minor adjustment to the commission rate for Van Ham, and, in turn, an adjustment to Rafe’s commission rate, as well—Rafe could practically visualize the paperwork in his head, different pages of different contracts, many that he was intimately familiar with down to the page number. Normally it wouldn’t phase him—he enjoyed being meticulous, almost to a fault.

But, as he leaned back in his chair, interlocked his fingers behind his head, he felt the fatigue settling in again—it had abated during the phone calls, drowned out by the stimulation of hammering out contract agreements, but now…

Rafe ran a hand over his hair, halfheartedly smoothing it back.

“Should’ve taken him up on that bath, instead of the nap.”

Rafe eased himself out of his chair, rubbing his nape as he shuffled to the kitchen for a refill and a reheat. His robe had loosened, opened a bit at his chest, his stomach, and the smooth surface of the countertop was cold as he brushed against it, leaning, reaching, feeling around on one of the upper shelves of the cabinet for some aspirin. 

He felt the press of a body against his back—he’d never heard footsteps, not a sound—and he yelped, spun around, nearly slipped.

Sam looked equal parts surprised and apologetic. And half asleep. But his hands were on Rafe’s hips instantly, steadying his smaller half. “Shit, babe, I’m sorry—I thought you heard me.”

Rafe took several deep breaths, suddenly even more exhausted. “Heard you?”

“Well yeah. What, you didn’t hear me? I mean, not at all?” Sam tilted his head, brows furrowed.

“I— No. I didn’t,” Rafe admitted, frowning. “Would you grab the aspirin?”

Sam did as Rafe asked without question, handing him the bottle, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Hey, you okay? You don’t look so hot—”

“Hm.” Rafe pursed his lips, raising a brow.

“Ah, come on, you know what I mean, and you  _know_  I think you’re hot.” Sam shook his head, raked his fingers through Rafe’s messy hair. “Well, at least you’ve still got some sass in ya.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, but gave Sam the best smile he could muster, shaking two pills out of the bottle and popping them in his mouth, chewing them slowly.

Sam winced. “Don’t know how you do that. Tastes like shit.”

“Works faster.”

Sam sidestepped, opened another cabinet. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the tap, passing it to Rafe.

“Thanks.” Rafe took the glass, tipped it back, doing his best to wash away the biting flavor, the powdery texture.

“Been up long?” Sam was at the fridge, grabbing a few things—eggs and bacon among them.

Rafe glanced at the clock. “A few hours.”

“You feel any better?” Sam glanced at the coffee pot. “Ay, got enough left for me to have a cup?”

“Yes,” Rafe lied—if anything, he felt worse. “And yes, but you’ll have to heat it up.”

Sam set his items from the fridge onto the counter, pushed them towards the stove, then turned to Rafe. “You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s been cold for at least an hour.” Rafe was already headed back to his desk.

“Hey, I didn’t mean about the coffee—” Sam followed, catching up easily with Rafe moving so slow. “Hey—”

Rafe stifled a sigh, eyebrows raised. “What.”

Sam took Rafe by the shoulders and searched his face.

Rafe was a bit paler than usual, and Sam knew without asking that the majority of Rafe’s energy was presently focused on keeping his eyes open and his voice at a normal volume. He reached up, brushed the backs of his knuckles against Rafe’s cheek, and when Rafe’s eyes closed, they stayed that way longer than usual.

“You gotta get some rest today, a’right? You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine, Sam.” But his eyes were still closed.

“Yeah, yeah, you always are. But I’m asking, okay? I’m asking you to take some time to relax. For me. Will you do that for me?”

Rafe stiffened, frowning, frustration beginning to push past the fatigue. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but was arguably unsuccessful. 

“You know I can’t do that. Sam, we’ve already talked about this. I don’t have time.”

“Okay, but—”

“Samuel.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed, he was a spark, and too close to igniting. “Drop it. I have to get back to work.”

Sam pursed his lips, took a deep breath through his nose— “A’right. Fine. Whatever.”—and let go of Rafe.

Rafe continued the trek to his desk as soon as Sam’s hands left his shoulders, and Sam forced himself to bite his tongue. He retreated to the kitchen, grumbling under his breath—knowing that normally he’d get shit for it, but apparently Rafe’s hearing wasn’t at full capacity at the moment.

Sam busied himself by making breakfast, scrambling some eggs and cooking bacon. Nothing fancy, but it’d do.

“You want anything to eat?”

Silence.

“ _Rafe_.” Louder.

Finally, “What?”

“You hungry?”

“No.”

Sam sighed. He knew Rafe wouldn’t rest until he’d taken care of whatever he thought needed taking care of. He wished Rafe would consider taking care of himself before all the other bullshit—paperwork and phone calls. 

_Hardly more important than your health, Rafe._

Still, he ate in silence, left Rafe alone. When he finished, he headed back to their bedroom to get dressed, spotted Rafe’s iPad on the nightstand. He grabbed in, unlocked it, the numbers put a smile on his face—their anniversary, the month and day.

He pulled up Rafe’s calendar, frowning at everything Rafe had on his agenda. He had half a mind to wipe it all, replace it with a daily reminder to take better fucking care of himself, but he figured Rafe might actually dump him if he tampered with his business, so he settled instead for adding a ‘reminder’, complete with an alarm and a memo— 

_“get some rest, my stupid beautiful piece of shit. sincerely, your concerned and doting husband.”_

Sam made his way back to Rafe, trying to announce himself by clearing his throat—Rafe still didn’t hear him.

Sam stood for a moment, watching Rafe, who was leaning heavily on his desk—one elbow on the table, and his chin in his hand. He had an email pulled up, seemed to be reviewing what he’d typed up as a response. Every now and again he dropped two fingers to the trackpad of his laptop, scrolled. His hair was unkempt, fluffy from sleep, something that Sam found impossibly attractive.

He sighed, checked his watch— _just enough time_. He headed back to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee, discovered Rafe’s still in the microwave. He gave it another few seconds, and when it was ready, he carried it back to Rafe, placed it on the corner of Rafe’s desk and slid it toward him, simultaneously resting a hand on Rafe’s shoulder.

He felt Rafe’s muscles tense at the touch. Rafe looked up in a hurry, frowned when he realized he’d again not heard Sam coming.

“You forgot this, baby.  _Please_  try and rest up today.”

Rafe crossed his arms, pursed his lips, just barely managed to stifle the urge to roll his eyes. “I said I’m  _fine_ , Sam.”

“Okay.” Sam sighed, let his hand fall away. He pressed a quick kiss to Rafe’s head, closing his eyes and inhaling the soft scent of his hair. “I shouldn’t be too late tonight. Got some research to do at the library, then I’m supposed to see a guy about that Costa Rica thing—if it goes well, you should come with me to the next meet.”

Rafe offered a noncommittal grunt, his focus already back to his email.

Sam frowned, turned to go. He had one hand on the doorknob when he heard Rafe—

“Sam.”

He looked back, eyebrows raised. Waiting.

“Thanks.” He gestured to the mug.

Sam managed a small smile, nodded. “Welcome.” And then he was gone.

Rafe closed his eyes, pressed his fingers to his temples. “Fuck.”

He sipped the coffee and kept working, forwarding the new terms to his lawyer, drafting a response to Roderic, and another to his client. By the time he was done, his mug was empty, and he felt worse than ever.

Keeping his eyes open was a struggle. He was very near nodding off, very near slumping over on his laptop, when his phone went off—startled him.

“Jesus!”

He exhaled slowly, practically growling as he reached for his phone, but he couldn’t hide the amused grin when he saw the screen; a “To Do” list reminder.

_“get some rest, my stupid beautiful piece of shit. sincerely, your concerned and doting husband.”_

“Why am I not surprised?” He sighed, shook his head.

He refreshed his email once more, saw nothing new. He glanced at his phone again, at the reminder. Considered it.

Rafe checked the time, checked his calendar, checked anything he could think of. Antsy. Always antsy toward the end of a business deal. And coordinating estates and auctions was supposed to be a  _hobby_ —fortunately the day job was taken care of for the moment; no fires to put out, not yet.

He’d hired on two new people to work directly under him—an effort to free up more time for his hobby, and for Sam’s—and for  _theirs_. 

_Costa Rica._

Rafe thought about pulling those files up again, browsing them, but there’d be plenty of time for that after settling with Van Ham, and besides, there was still the possibility—however slim—that things wouldn’t work out. He looked at his phone again, knowing Sam wouldn’t have news yet, but double-checking anyway.

Nothing new. Just the second alert from Sam’s reminder.

_—get some rest, my stupid beautiful piece of shit—_

Rafe closed out the reminder, hesitated before putting his phone down.

_I could… Just for a little while. Nothing I can do until I hear back, anyway…_

He pushed back from his desk, stood. He leaned against his desk for a moment, suddenly lightheaded. His limbs felt too heavy, his body weak. 

“Goddamnit, I don’t have time for this shit.”

He set his sight on the bedroom, but only made it as far as the sofa. He dumped himself against the cushions, on his side with his face pressed against one of the plush pillows. He was asleep even before he managed to tug a throw over himself.

* * *

Rafe woke up shivering—chilled. Clammy—a cold sweat. His phone was buzzing on the coffee table, and he felt for it halfheartedly—

A text from Sam. 

_“meet got pushed back a few hours so i’m killin more time at the library. you doing ok?”_

Rafe groaned, locked his phone. Not ready to answer that question yet. He stood, slowly, grabbing the throw from the back of the sofa and wrapping it around his shoulders as he headed for their bedroom. He opened the medicine cabinet, frowned as he took stock of its contents. He opted for more aspirin because—

_Jet lag. It’s just a headache thanks to jet lag, because I don’t have time—_

But as he choked down the pills, took a few gulps of water, intending to go back to work, back to his laptop, he hesitated. Glanced over at the bed. So inviting…

He shrugged off the throw and crawled under the covers, tugging the plush comforter up to his eyes. 

He felt his phone vibrate again, grumbled. “Ask me to get some rest, then text me while I’m trying to take a nap. Come on, Sam.” Still, he appreciated Sam’s attentiveness.

Rafe unlocked his phone to discover an email rather than a text. From his client with the estate— _“More to discuss, would prefer to do it in person. How soon can you fly back?”_

“Son of a—”

Rafe groaned. First, he typed, “Maybe next week, I think I’m coming down with something,” but that seemed wrong—it was nobody’s business how his health was— _jet lag jet lag it’s jet lag_ —but he also didn’t relish the idea of waiting a week to wrap this up. They were already too close to the deadline for Van Ham’s next auction.

Then he tried, “A few days,” but that meant just in time for the weekend, and business would be harder to conduct.

So he finally, begrudgingly, settled on, “Tomorrow.”

It didn’t take long to make the necessary arrangements—a message to his usual pilot; he would’ve called, but his voice sounded a bit rough and he thought it best to save it. Just in case. Another email to his usual hotel, asking to make a suite available, though it read a whole lot more like a demand than a request.

To Sam, he sent,  _“When will you be home?”_

He regretted it immediately—it felt too  _needy_. Not the words themselves, necessarily, but the implication.

 _I want you home_ , that’s how it felt to Rafe. Because it was true.

Although he kept repeating to himself that he wasn’t sick, his body disagreed, and intensely. It was there, and deep, the feeling. It was in his bones. And though he felt cold, the clamminess had gone, replaced by skin that was hot to the touch.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he thought. _It’s just a few words, Sam won’t—_

_“do you need me back? i can cancel the meeting. did you take something yet besides the aspirin? anything you need me to get from the pharmacy?”_

Rafe read, reread the message. Sighed.

_Fuck._

He’d done this dance with Sam before—Sam, who wanted nothing more than to take care of him. So strange, still. Though they’d been together for years. Rafe had yet to become used to being taken care of, and he tended to fight it. It was how he ended up with reminders like Sam had left earlier— _my stupid beautiful piece of shit._

_Indeed._

Rafe replied quickly.

_“That won’t be necessary.”_

And then, as if to prove that he was as  _fine_  as he said, he added—

_“I fly back to Germany tomorrow. Just for a couple of days.”_

Rafe watched as the icon appeared on his screen—Sam was texting back. Then, he wasn’t. 

Then Rafe’s phone was ringing.

Rafe cleared his throat before answering, but found that it hurt to do so. Defeated, he dropped his phone to the mattress, ignoring it as he pulled the covers up around his head again.

Sam called three more times, but Rafe was already asleep.

* * *

Rafe slept through his first alarm—unusual—only waking after it went off a second time, after the automated nine-minute snooze. He rubbed his eyes, shifted, realized Sam was in bed next to him.

Asleep.

Rafe tried not to think about how Sam came home, got ready for bed, crawled in next to him, and all without rousing him at all. He didn’t usually sleep so hard.

Rafe carefully, quietly slid out of bed, disappeared into the closet. He pulled out his carry-on suitcase, packed in a hurry—he’d intended to the day before, hadn’t expected to sleep so much.

He checked to make sure he had everything—some cash, his passport, the necessities, and he rolled his suitcase to the bedroom door, leaving it there while he hopped in the shower.

He checked the time before he stepped under the spray—he was doing okay, but still it would be best to keep things short. The hot water felt good on his skin. The steam made it easier to breathe, helped to loosen sore muscles.

By the time he stepped out, he felt remarkably human again—but not enough to fool Sam, who was sitting up in bed, and who stood as soon as Rafe emerged from the bathroom.

“Rafe, what’re you doing up? It’s—”

“I have a flight to catch, remember?” Rafe finished buttoning his shirt, hoping his voice sounded firmer than it felt.

“Babe, seriously? You’re in no condition to—”

“I’m  _fine_.” Rafe finished getting dressed, ignoring the pointed look Sam was giving him.

“Well—” Sam lifted his hands in exasperation, let them fall to his sides again. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not. You told me you’d take care of revised contracts for the historical society. They need to be notarized.”

“Okay, but—”

“Samuel. They  _need_  to be notarized. I  _need_  you to see to it. If you’re that insistent on coming with me, then fly out tomorrow.” Rafe sighed, offering the best compromise he could manage.

Sam’s shoulders drooped, his face fell. “But—”

“I don’t have time to argue, I’ll be late.” 

Rafe headed for the door, paused when Sam called his name.

“Rafe. Hey, you really gonna leave like that?”

Rafe turned. “Like what?”

Sam frowned deeply, and Rafe felt a sting of guilt—he actually looked  _hurt_. 

Sam pursed his lips, opened his arms, and Rafe sighed, dutifully stepped into them, disheartened to notice a difference in the way Sam held him. Looser, and though they embraced, Rafe sensed a distance between them.

_Fuck._

_I’m sorry,_  Rafe thought. And,  _it’s only for a couple of days._  Then finally,  _why don’t you go ahead and plan to join me when you can? I’d like that._

But instead, he pulled away. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch Sam’s face, but it seemed an unwelcome gesture at the moment.

“I’ll call you when I land.”

* * *

Rafe slept more on the plane—he thought of getting some work done, but there wasn’t much he could do until after the meeting with his client.

He woke a few times, always groggy. The third time, he downed a fifth of bourbon, closed his eyes, and drifted off again. And the flight would’ve felt long—should’ve felt long—if not for the amount of time Rafe spent dreaming.

He knew, deep down, that he wasn’t well. He also knew that usually meant restless dreams, bad dreams. It wasn’t the nightmare—not his father—which was a small blessing.

But the one that came wasn’t much better, and it hurt more acutely. 

_Sam._

It began with Sam’s voice. 

_“Rafe.”_

_They were in a house, sunlight streaming in from the windows, the open doors. Rafe recognized it immediately—the first place they’d gone on their honeymoon._

_Rafe heard waves, knew that just outside the back door was the beach. White sands, crystal clear water. Palm trees, a hammock. Isolated, private, sublime._

_This should be a happy dream, he thought, but then he turned to face Sam, and it made him ache. The disappointment on his face, the sadness._

Somewhere, blurry in the depths of his rational mind, he knew it was an exaggeration of what had occurred that morning, he knew he’d hurt Sam by nearly walking out without so much as a peck on the cheek.

_“You really gonna leave like that?”_

_When Sam took him in his arms, it made him cold—Sam was ice. And when Rafe looked into his eyes, they weren’t familiar. They were dark, and very distant, and suddenly Sam was pushing him away._

_“Fine,” Sam said. But not with words. His lips weren’t moving, but his stare was accusatory, almost hateful. “How does it feel when I push back?”_

_“No—”_

_“Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”_

_“No, Sam, please—”_

_“You aren't worth the trouble, you stupid piece of shit.”_

_“What?”_

_“You stupid—_

beautiful

_—piece of shit.”_

Wake up—

_Rafe felt himself trying to hold on, felt his fingers clutch at Sam’s shirt, but Sam was so strong, and he wouldn’t stop pushing._

My

_stupid—_

beautiful

_—piece of shit._

Wake up.

_Rafe’s grip faltered, and Sam gave one last shove, and Rafe fell backwards. He expected to feel the floor, expected to hit it hard, but he never did._

_He just kept falling._

Rafe’s phone chimed—loud. And when Rafe opened his eyes, reality did feel like hitting the ground. His heart was beating fast, and he blinked. The memory was fresh, the dream, and Sam—the feeling of being pushed away, and how desperate he’d been to  _hold on_.

_Is that how I make him feel? Desperate, confused, helpless. When I push, is that—how much I hurt him?_

“Fuck,” Rafe groaned, taking a minute to talk himself back down, steady his racing heart.

_No. Not now. Deal with that later—_

Ten down to one, again,  _again_ —

_Better._

He looked at his phone, uttered a soft sigh of relief. The reminder from Sam again. 

_I thought I closed it out already—_

Curious, Rafe opened his calendar, discovered that Sam had set the same reminder to repeat each day for the whole week.

And normally, Rafe would’ve felt at least a hint of irritation that Sam would do anything with or to his schedule—Sam had a bad habit of accidentally deleting things; memos from his phone, emails before he’d responded, recorded shows from the DVR. 

Sam was a technological menace.

Still, after the dream, Rafe was thankful to see it. Grateful for Sam.

_I should’ve told the pilot to wait. I should've asked Sam to come with me. I should’ve—_

But then they were landing, and it took all of Rafe’s focus to make it off the plane and to the car. His voice was still gruff when he gave the driver the address.

It was evening by the time he reached the hotel, and It seemed an awful lot like losing a whole day, but at least he had time to gather his thoughts, go over a few things before his meeting the next morning.

Forty-five minutes later, Rafe was checked into his room, showered, and tucked into bed. It crossed his mind that he should feel hungry, but he didn’t. He couldn’t shake the chills, not even after calling down for a second comforter.

It was dark in the room—he’d turned out the lights already, but his face was illuminated by the screen of his phone. He opened his messages, found Sam.

Hesitated.

 _“You were right,”_  he typed.  _“I feel like shit. Will you come?”_

His thumb hovered over  _send_ , then crept toward  _delete_.

He fidgeted with the ring on his finger, sighed. 

_Delete._

A few more quick finger strokes—

_“Landed and checked in.”_

—and he locked his phone. Set it aside. Wanted no more to do with it until his alarm went off the next morning.

But a few moments later, he grabbed it again, impulsively. And before he could talk himself out of it, he added—

_“Sorry about this morning. Forgive me? Sincerely, your stupid beautiful piece of shit.”_

Before he could put it down, he got back—

_“you’re forgiven. always.”_

* * *

Sam hated the airport. It was so different than it had been thirteen years ago. Strange, and crowded, and easy to get lost in. He knew Rafe would’ve made better arrangements for him, but he was tired of arguing, and he didn’t want to take the time.

He’d booked a flight less than an hour after Rafe had left to catch his own. Rafe was stubborn as hell, would miss his own funeral if it got in the way of finishing up a job. But the past few days had seen him more irritable than usual, and without an appetite. Pale, beat down, and no matter how vehemently he insisted he was fine, Sam knew he was anything but.

He took care of what he could before he left—he had the contracts notarized, as he’d said he would.

He’d nearly forgotten to grab the address to Rafe’s hotel, and by the time he remembered he was already halfway to his car, so he’d run back in, grabbed Rafe’s iPad— _I’ll look it up on the plane._

He did his best to plan well, getting a seat on a flight that, while not so convenient for leaving, put him arriving in Germany in the morning hours.

Between a slight delay leaving, and a bit of time on the tarmac arriving, it was 8am when he finally disembarked. 

He pulled out Rafe’s iPad again, checked the address one more time as he read it off to the driver. He closed out of Rafe’s calendar, noticed a new message.

 _“Where are you?”_ Sam frowned, checked the sender. Recognized the name. Rafe’s client. The guy with the Eaton thing.  _“We said 7:30, did we not?”_

And, as Sam’s frown deepened, another one came— _“Why aren’t you answering your phone?”_

 _Oh no,_ Sam thought.  _That can’t be good._

Sam’s phone buzzed. He shifted his weight, set the iPad aside, slid his phone out of his pocket. A text from Rafe—

_“You win.”_

_“what’s wrong baby?”_

_“You can’t get mad.”_

_“i won’t, just tell me”_

Sam’s leg bounced restlessly as he waited, waited, and then finally—

_“I got dizzy and collapsed in the fucking lobby this morning. Missed my goddamn meeting. The hotel called for a doctor. How fucking embarrassing is that?”_

Sam blinked. Read the message again.  _Dizzy. Collapsed. A doctor?_ He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, groaned.

_“Sam? Come on it’s not that big of a deal, I swear.”_

_…_

_“Sam?”_

_“yeah. shit baby are you okay?” — “and don’t say ‘im fine’ i’ll lick your ass” — “KICK. I’ll KICK your ass, goddammit”_

_“I’ve been better.” — “But I’d still let you lick my ass, in sickness and in health.”_

_“haha shut your face before i divorce you. what did the doctor say?”_

The car lurched forward—or maybe it was Sam’s head that was a bit off. The traffic was slow, and Sam wished they were already there.

_“Pneumonia.”_

_…_

_“Say something.”_

_“something”_

_“I said I was sorry.”_

_“yeah but that was for a different thing. this is a new thing”_

_“I’m sorry for the new thing.”_

_…_

_“I wish you were here. I feel like absolute shit.”_

Before Sam could finish typing a response, Rafe’s next text came through—

_“Will you come? Please?”_

Sam softened, raking his fingers through his hair. For all their time together, it was a big thing, those words. Rafe let Sam know on a daily basis how much he’d come to lean on him—but it was with actions, not words. Words were still a challenge for him, when it came to their relationship.

Sam closed his eyes, thought of Rafe, savored those words. Never had he been happier with a last minute decision. He was endlessly thankful he didn’t have to wait another eight hours before holding his husband.

His phone buzzed again, and he blinked, looked down—realized he had three new texts, and all from Rafe. All less than a minute apart. The corner of his lip twitched up, a half smile. Endearing.

_“Sam?” — “Please?” — “I need you, I know it’s an inconvenience, I’m sorry. Please?”_

_“I’m in a cab on my way to your hotel now.”_

Sam watched as the icon appeared on his screen—Rafe was texting back. Then, he wasn’t.

Then Sam’s phone was ringing.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Sam said as he answered.

“Tell me you’re not fucking with me.” Rafe’s voice was soft, a bit scratchy. Deeper than normal.

But hopeful.

“You sound like shit.”

There was a long pause, a small cough, and Rafe cleared his throat. “Please?”

Sam frowned.  _He really must feel like shit._

“Okay, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m not fucking with you, I’m on my way.”

“Can you do something for me?”

“Of course, baby, what do you need?”

“It’s an errand, if that’s okay. If it’s not too late to give another address to your driver—” 

Another pause. Sam could tell Rafe covered the speaker of his phone because the coughing was muffled. Sam didn’t like how long this bout of coughing lasted.

Rafe sighed. “Sorry. How close are you?”

“Just pulling up, actually.” Sam looked out the window, and up—despite the situation, the reason for coming in such a hurry, Sam felt a flutter of excitement. The same kind that always struck him when he arrived anywhere knowing that Rafe was just inside, just moments away, and all his.

“Will you come up first? I’m about to throw my phone—I finally spoke with my client, but Van Ham’s called me twice, leaving messages for me to call Roderic, and I sound  _terrible_ , so I just keep ignoring the calls. I swear to god, Sam, I’m gonna throw it—”

“Relax, baby, I’m comin’. What’s your room number?”

“It’s the Bellevue Suite.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a sec.”

“Okay.” Rafe paused, then, “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“…Thank you.”

Sam smiled. “Welcome.”

* * *

Sam had an easier time at the front desk than he’d anticipated—Rafe had called down, let them know to expect him. He was handed a room key promptly, and offered assistance with his bags, which he refused. He only had one, anyway.

He took the elevator up to the suite, tapped on the door before letting himself in. The room was mostly dark, the curtains drawn, but the small light by the bed was on, illuminating Rafe, who was propped halfheartedly against the headboard, trying to stay awake.

Rafe looked up when Sam entered, and offered a tired smile. “Sam.”

Sam dumped his bag by the door, crossed the room quickly, leaning over Rafe and wrapping him up in a tight embrace. “Hey, baby.”

He held on until he felt Rafe relax, and then he pulled away, fussing with Rafe’s pillows, his blankets.

“How’re you feeling?” He gently stroked Rafe’s hair, and Rafe closed his eyes.

“Like hell,” he muttered softly. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Rafe shifted over, a silent invitation, and Sam was more then happy to oblige, stretching out on the bed, leaning against the headboard and pulling Rafe close. Rafe lifted slightly, nestled against Sam’s chest, between his legs. 

Sam frowned, feeling Rafe shiver. He held on tighter.

“This whole morning has been a nightmare.”

Rafe pressed his face against Sam’s chest. “They said I’m likely not contagious. Something about  _bacterial_  pneumonia, so…” He lifted a shoulder, a small shrug.

“Good, means I don’t have to wear one of those paper masks just to cuddle you.” Sam offered a small smile, pressing his lips to Rafe’s forehead. He felt hot—feverish.

“About the errand,” Rafe muttered, peering up at Sam from behind heavy eyelids. “The doctor called in a prescription for antibiotics. Do you think you could pick them up? I spoke with the Embassy, they gave me the address of the pharmacy it’s been filled at. I—” 

Rafe pulled away quickly, turning his back to Sam to cough. Sam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from instinctively pulling him back. The cough sounded painful, deep.

When it finally subsided, he could tell it left Rafe exhausted. He curled up on his side, closed his eyes.

“I wrote it down, I think. On the notepad on the nightstand. Didn’t I?”

Sam reluctantly slid off of the bed, grabbed the notepad in question. “I see it.”

“I called for a car when you said you were coming up. It should be here by now.”

“Okay, is there anything else you need while I’m out? You hungry, or thirsty or…?”

Rafe shook his head, eyes still closed. “Don’t have much of an appetite.”

“A’right.” 

Sam checked his pocket, made sure he hadn’t packed his wallet away in his duffel, and he headed for the door. 

“Thank you, Sam.” Rafe’s voice, drifting out after him as he shut the door.

Sam hurried to the elevator, tapped his fingers against his thigh as he watched the floors count down, and he paused at the concierge desk in the lobby—he had no earthly idea where to go to claim the car Rafe’d called for him.

He was told the way, and he hurried there, too, rattling off the address Rafe had jotted down as soon as he was in the car.

He was anxious. Anxious to get Rafe’s meds, but more than that he was anxious to be back with Rafe. 

He was doing his level best to be calm, but he struggled with memories of childhood—of his mother, and her illness, her death. Of Nathan, when they were young, and the few times he’d come down with something, something bad. The desperation to find the right meds, to track down or steal something from somewhere. Sam still battled the residual fear—the feeling of helplessness. 

This was nothing like that, and Sam knew it. Rafe had the kind of money that afforded him the best possible healthcare at any given time, from any sort of specialist, no matter the severity of his ailment. As far as treatment was concerned, and medication, Sam had no reason to worry that Rafe wouldn’t get whatever he needed.

Still, those moments stuck with him, and the crippling fear that he wouldn’t be able to do enough.

Sam kept his focus on his surroundings—on what he could see from the window of the car.

At least until his phone buzzed. He smiled when he looked down at it. 

Rafe, again.

_“Is it far away? The pharmacy?”_

_“dunno. i’m just along for the ride.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“why? miss me already?”_

_“Shut up.” — “If the pharmacy has cough drops, will you get some?”_

_“yep”_

_“Cherry flavored, if they have them. If not, then any kind. But nothing fruity.” — “Unless it’s cherry.”_

_“got it babe. anything else?”_

_“No, just that.”_ But almost immediately after— _“Ginger ale.”_

_“so not no then?”_

_“Please?”_

_“cough drops and ginger ale, got it”_

_“CHERRY.”_

_“right”_

Sam chuckled, shook his head. This was interesting—new. A different version of Rafe than he was used to. Aside from the pneumonia, it wasn’t all together unpleasant, as far as Sam was concerned.

A few minutes later, his phone went off again.

_“The doctor said I could take ibuprofen also. Can you pick some up with the rest of the stuff? That, or acetaminophen. Try and get a brand you recognize. Or have the pharmacist recommend.”_

_“okay sweetheart”_

_“Are you there yet?”_

_“still on the way.”_

_“Ok.” — “Get whatever you want, too, unless you want to order room service. I’m still not hungry, and the mini-bar doesn't have much. At least not the kind of stuff you like to eat.”_

_“whats that supposed to mean?”_

_“I think you know.” — “You know, being around smoke aggravates the lungs, you probably shouldn’t smoke around me until I’m better.” — “Could be a good time to quit…”_

_“haha”_

_“I’m serious.”_

_“uhhhhhhhh……….”_ Sam frowned, his throat felt tight. As if on cue, his fingers began to itch for a cigarette, and his body for the tobacco. For the taste of it, and for everything else.

_“Just imagining the look on your face is making me feel better, Samuel.”_

_“what did you say about the cough drops again? anything BUT cherry?”_ Sam teased.

_“Ha. Very funny.”_

_“same to you”_

_“Fine. Fiiine.” — “Are you there yet?”_

_“baby go to sleep, why are you still texting me? you’re supposed to be resting”_

_“Tell me when you get there.”_

Sam started to text back, paused when he felt the car slow. He leaned forward, watching his driver in the rearview mirror. “We here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s fantastic, ah—how does this work? Can I ask you to wait while I run in?” Sam was already unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Yes, sir, I’ll circle the block until I see you come out.”

“Thanks.”

Sam hopped out, headed inside. Sent another text to Rafe— _“made it. i’ll let you know when i leave”_

Sam grabbed what he needed, and as fast as he could. The things Rafe asked for— _thank god they have cherry_ —and a couple of snacks for himself. He nearly bought another pack of cigarettes, but changed his mind. He wasn’t sold on quitting, even though he knew Rafe had only been teasing, but he also knew Rafe wasn’t lying about the smoke aggravating his lungs. 

_Probably best to cut back until he gets better._

By the time he made it back to the curb, his driver’d only had to circle twice.

_“headed back, baby. see you soon”_

The ride back to the hotel seemed longer than before, but Sam blamed that largely on the fact that Rafe had stopped texting him.

He made sure to be quiet as he let himself into the room, his eyes immediately finding Rafe—a compact lump under the covers. He could see an arm sticking out, hanging off the edge of the mattress. Cell phone still in hand, his grip loose—miraculously, he’d not yet dropped it.

 _Good,_  Sam thought.  _He’s finally asleep._

Sam kicked off his shoes, stripped down to his boxers, carefully plucked Rafe’s phone from his fingers and set it on the nightstand before crawling under the covers with Rafe.

He pressed his chest to Rafe’s back, felt Rafe unfold at the contact, stretching himself out against Sam, who tucked one arm under his head, draped the other over Rafe. He fell asleep with his face pressed to Rafe’s nape.

This time there were no alarms to wake them.

* * *

It took nearly a week for Rafe to feel somewhat normal again. The fever was gone, and with it the chills. He’d gone through more than one bag of cough drops— _cherry_. All that really lingered was the fatigue. But Sam knew he hated it—hated feeling so tired.

Fortunately, between himself and Sam, Rafe had managed to wrap up the majority of his dealings with Eaton and Van Ham by email—though all parties involved preferred in-person dealings, or at least video conferencing, once Rafe had explained the predicament, they’d found a way to work it out.

Sam could tell it was a weight off, and he was glad—the less Rafe had to worry about, the smoother his recovery.

They’d already decided to extend their stay—take advantage of business being handled, salvage the trip by turning it into something of a vacation. Sam was looking forward to it, to time with Rafe. He’d been to Berlin a few times, always with Rafe, but always on business. Never much time to have fun. But this time, Sam intended to make sure they both had a hell of a good time.

Just as soon as Rafe finished up his course of antibiotics— _three more days._

They sat on the sofa, Rafe halfheartedly flipping through channels on the television. His German was better than Sam’s, by leaps and bounds. But Sam enjoyed being next to him regardless, more interested in Rafe than any TV program anyway.

Rafe closed the distance between them, planting himself at Sam’s side, sighing as Sam threw an arm around his shoulders.

“You know, I kinda like you like this. All docile and clingy.” 

Sam let his thumb rub gently back and forth along the curve of Rafe’s shoulder, turning his head towards Rafe, pressing his forehead to Rafe’s temple.

“I am not—”

Sam cut Rafe off, stole away his words by capturing his lips. He felt Rafe stiffen momentarily, imagined his inner struggle— _do I pull away, or do I…_

Rafe kissed back. Softly, and Sam could tell he kept himself at a distance, and under control. Rafe was less confident than Sam, it seemed, in terms of his recovery. 

But Sam didn't care about that—he’d gone long enough missing the taste of Rafe’s lips, the shape of his mouth, the sensation of Rafe opening up. Allowing. Returning.

When Sam finally pulled away, he was pleased to see Rafe’s cheeks flushed. He’d looked so pale the past week, and Sam was relieved to see some color back in his face.

“Fuck me, but I’ve missed that.” A whisper, punctuated by a lingering kiss to Rafe’s forehead.

Rafe swallowed thickly, fingers curling and uncurling around Sam’s shirt.

“Can we agree that next time I ask you to give yourself a break, you’ll at least consider it?” Sam shifted, laying back on the sofa, pulling Rafe with him.

“…Possibly.”

“Jesus, you’re stubborn, you know that—”

This time it was Rafe who cut Sam off, seeking to satisfy the hunger that Sam had stirred up in him. And this time it was Sam who opened so readily beneath him, slipping a hand down to Rafe’s ass, urging their bodies even closer together as they kissed.

Finally, Rafe came up for air, dropping his forehead to Sam’s chest. “Maybe I am getting a little energy back…”

Sam wagged his brows, gave Rafe’s ass a firm squeeze. “Oh yeah? Why don’t you show me?”


End file.
